Of Secrets and Tea
by IPut a-SpellOnYou15
Summary: Why was she so different?Why did she trod on the hot coals of the government?It was because she, unlike many, did not strain on the big picture; instead she split it apart, studying each fragment then pieced it back. Some called it deduction,some called it magic,few called it common sense. Rated for violence,torture,exotic dancing,sexual references and possible rape later on
1. Chapter 1

**_***Chapter one****_**

Amidst the gasoline fueled vehicles, the elevated voices of passersby and the ringing of bicycle bells, there was a sound. It was the sound of a small clock. Indeed, within the walls of a nondescript building, there was a small clock, ticking away. A watch to be exact. Through the entrance, down corridors and and into doorways, there sat a bench. On said bench, there sat a young woman, and in that woman's hands, lay the culprit.

_Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick —click._

A proudly gleaming pocket-watch of silver sat in Ms. Clea Hardell's hand.

As she was seated, waiting for the thick door to her right to swing open, she studied the slender hand of the seconds as it ticked to a full circle. Each turn of those arms were so very much the same, yet was they symbolized and represented was so terribly ever- ticking seemed to echo and reverberate from the corridors. So much so, that it seemed that Big Ben was in her hands, opposed to a palm-sized pocket watch.

As with only the fewest of things, time was a strange thing to Ms. Clea Hardell. T'was the stuff of importance and illusion, and yet she chose to not dwell on its significance as it could easily consume her life and thoughts.

Time was a quiet thing, bit it constantly evolved into the uproar that the future holds. It could be described as being as tangible as pickin up a tea cup, or that it could not be grasped at all. It taught, aged and lacked any morals. Time was not linear as so many thought; it just was. But it was the most constant thing in Clea's life, the one thing she knew would be there when she awoke.

Her small, fragile fingers clenched the case of the time keeper to a close, ceasing the unending ticking of seconds. Clea took a moment or two to dwell on why she was where she currently sat; the office of a Mr. M. Holmes. Perhaps it was in her innermost nature to seek out precarious positions such as this one, perhaps it served as a sign that her younger years of childhood never truly left her without being tainted with its past happenings. Had the recklessness she felt become so engrained inside her that the very feeling coursed through her veins?

She did not know.

However much her childhood effected her, it did not matter, as the consequences remained the same. Poisonous manipulation and solitude. The first had been inflicted upon her and so therefore, she was well practiced in the art of said distortion, the second was what had been her answer to the tangled truth of the former. In both instances, Clea had learned to either accept or relish in them, and, thankfully, both were well thought of in her current line of work. Which subsequently brought her thoughts back to her present at that time.

Upon opening her watch once more, Clea found the little arms telling her that thirteen seconds remained in the duration of her wait. Clea Hardell knew that if her possible future director was to be entitled to employ her service, the regal door to her immediate left would open in thirteen seconds; no more and certainly no less. Furthermore, if the door was in fact opened accordingly, then the position would most certainly prove to be an adequately satisfying one. You see, dear reader, a well practiced employer would be on time, however, a respectable employer was punctual and took pride in it. By what Clea had gathered from her brief background check on Mr. Holmes, he was, respectively, the latter.

Her thumb gently caressed the pocket-watch's surface, much like a mother would her new born's cheek; though instead of relishing in the blush on an infant's cheeks, Clea Hardell luxuriated in the sheen that shimmered along the bright silver. I_ hope I have done you proud Pa.._.Gingerly placing the time-keeper in her pastel blue, pin-striped waistcoat, the young woman allowed the remaining seconds to pass quietly.

Then, just as she was lulled into a calmed state, there was a sound that greeted Clea's awaiting ears, other than her own heart precise click of gears in the door's handle coincided seamlessly with her soundless count to zero.

For a moment, Clea's view was blocked by the imposing, wooden door, halting her from seeing the opener. After a short moment, a woman turned to face the sitting girl of only twenty-one. Clea raised her head high with prepared eyes, opposed to studying the woman through her long eyelashes. She also sat a bit straighter - not that she could sit additionally straighter as she was already accustomed to ramrod straight posture.

"Ms. Hardell? We're ready for you."

The assistant spoke smoothly, but with an underlying monotone of boredom. _She has most likely been in this position for the better part of her life. A man in Mr. Holmes' position would not take to switching close employees every other year. Personal Assistant? Name-brand clothes in black, manicured nails, suitable amount of cosmetics, tired eyes, slightly flatter right thumb from constantly using her phone. That phone does not part from her hands; she clutches it as though it were her life line, most probably composed of secrets and tea times. Personal Assistant._

Clea looked up to the woman's brown eyes with a small but pleased grin.

"Thank you."

Picking up her black brief case, Clea strode through the door frame; the sound of her small heels establishing her otherwise silent entrance. As she first walked into the office, Clea did the one thing she always did- survey her surroundings. Book cases lined the walls; an empty hearth sat to the right accompanied by the presence of two cushioned chairs; a large window resided near the back of the office to the left of an equally large desk. As a whole, the entire office was well maintained. That being said, the most prominent element in the room was the complete lack of untidiness, and the booming presence aristocratic intelligence, which was proudly displayed in every inch of space.

_Possible Obsessive Compulsive Disorder?No, not OCD; OCPD- Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder. This man was obsessed with power, and he made sure everyone in the room knew he held the cards._

Behind the rather large oak desk, sat a man who's attention was otherwise occupied outside of the impressively sized window. His black locks looked to have been subject to his fingers running through them in attempt to tame the curls; his blazer was well made, but looked to have been thrown on his floor after a hard day's work, instead of hung in a closet. He also did not seem terribly at ease in his tie, and his purple button up was far too tight to be considered appropriate. He was an ill attempt of an imposter, and to say that Clea did her best not to laugh would be an understatement.

As she took a seat in the chair opposite him, Clea stared at the man before her. She sat waiting to be acknowledged, which he did, without so much a a flicker of an eye.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Hardell."

Not seeing any true reason to reply, Clea chose to remain silent. Clea knew her manners and saw no fault in not responding when she was not technically spoken to, after all, it was the window he was speaking to. The man that truly owned the office she sat in, prided himself on manners and chivalry; that much was painfully obvious. To her silence, the man looked up at last.

_Calculating, clear eyes, and a good mind. He most likely lives in a London flat as he does not fit in with this decor around, though he has an appreciation of it, so probably a relative of Mr. Holmes. The balance of probability says brother; however, when neck deep in politics, wouldn't the more distant acquaintance be more appropriate? So...sibling rivalry? Younger brother picking if the elder? Most probable._

Deciding to break the facade that was so clearly being orchestrated around her, Clea spoke in her direct, soft voice with a simple question.

"Where is Mr. M. Holmes?" She asked, little emotion in her eyes though she spoke softly.

This got his attention, however he was not proving to be the best actor as he allowed curiosity slip through his trick," I'm afraid I don't follow." The man spoke with a creased brow.

"Where is Mr. M. Holmes, since you are more than clearly not he? Moreover, I would like to know to whom I am speaking."She paused, "You are his brother, are you not?"

As the words fell from her mouth, the man's face remained blank for a moment or two, then it broke into a curious smirk that spoke for him. "Well done." He stood and walked to Clea, smirk still in place, but hand outstretched, "Sherlock Holmes." Clea took it firmly, giving him a small triumphant grin. Another door opened to reveal an other man, more suited to the high-ranking position.

"Off you go little brother, you're not needed anymore." The voice that came from this man was not as dark as his brother's, but just as rich and effortless, perhaps with a surpassing class of tone. She quickly took in his immaculate three piece suit and startling, direct eyes. Yes, definitely higher in the aristocracy we pretend not to have.

The younger Holmes still hadn't taken his sea glass eyes off Clea; confusion and admiration shone behind his irises. Minds of thorough intellect were extraordinarily limited in numbers, and the young man before her clearly had a fascination for them as they had the rare ability to match his intelligence. With his hands settled in his pockets, he continued to analyze her. What he received was rather disappointing boring, as he got only exterior nothings;_ silver pocket watch (sentimental?ornamental?);short chestnut hair; soft, classical features that point to direct Aryan relations, but no trace of German is in her speech, but too young to weed the thick accent out. Good taste, and separates home from work. Non-smoker, early twenties_. But still, there was nothing that alluded to the nature and inner workings of the girl before him.

Clea patiently waited as he ended his deduction, and she sighed knowingly inside when he came up with nothing. In truth, not even she could solve herself, she was just a puzzle that sat jumbled up; all details but no outcome.

"Brother mine, would you please remove yourself from my office."

It was presented as anything but a question, and finally, the younger moved.

_Definitely sibling rivalry._

The newly produced man-who Clea assumed to be Mycroft Holmes- watched with calculating eyes as the door clicked shut behind his younger kin, leaving him, his P.A-who had remained on her phone for the duration of the interview- and Clea Hardell.

"Well played, my dear. Now, you are Ms. Clea Hardell?"He stated, more than asked.

"Yes, Sir."

"I am Mycroft Holmes. Now it says here," He flipped through what Clea knew to be her file. "That you last served at Buckingham Palace. Is this true?"

She didn't answer. It was a remarkably silly question, after all, Clea knew he had been and always will be informed of everything. It was in the nature of his soul to play the strings to make his puppets dance; it seemed, however, he enjoyed allowing them to think they had control. Mr. Holmes' brows scrunched together and he contemplated his current strategy to converse with the young woman before him, that did not seem to be working in his favour.

"Why did you decide to seek employment here? No position was made known, yet you sent in your file to be reviewed."

Nothing.

"Are you able to keep your mouth shut, should you obtain this position, Ms. Hardell?"He pressed.

Silence.

Mycroft huffed a sigh of tired disappointment and made his way to the door. "Ms. Hardell, you do need to answer sooner or later. However I am a very busy man, as such, seeing as you refuse to speak-"

"Oh, I can speak, ." Clea stated, turning her head to him, speaking with little emotion and a straight face. "I know that your younger brother used to tease you, that you worry over him more than you care to share, that you have OCPD and that you are the man whose secrets I have been keeping and dealing with since I have been a one of Her Majesty's agents. I did previously serve at Buckingham Palace, I am here seeking a different position because that is what people do- their tastes change, and yes, as you have learned, I can remain silent. You see, I simply do not answer silly questions that you already know the answers to, Mr. Holmes. I believe you will find that I often do not answer questions at all."

Silence passed over the office, much like a shroud. The grip Mycroft had developed on the door knob went lax, and he did something that was, in itself, an enigma. Mycroft Holmes smiled.


	2. Chapter 2

_******Chapter two******_

While on the way out of the building, Mycroft's personal assistant, Anthea she had said, explained what Clea would have resting on her shoulders in her new position. Anthea explained how Mycroft Holmes was a remarkably busy man, and that Clea would be in charge of preparing his morning, evening and anything in between- including any unwanted "situations". Anthea had paused at this, looking up from her texting to ensure that the young agent understood. Furthermore, she had annotated how Mycroft Holmes was most vulnerable at home, and how, as such, her watch must never go down.

"As much as I am his personal assistant, you will be his guard dog. Is that understood?" With her eyes drawn to her phone, Anthea somehow managed to navigate the two through the quiet halls and out to the exit. A sleek black car sat waiting for them, publled up to the curb.

"Yes, I fully understand."

"You're sure?" Anthea continued to speak to her screen.

"Yes, ma'am." Clea stated, then added, " I have taken three bullets for the Queen during my time at Buckingham Palace; I believe I am prepared to take a couple more for Mr. Holmes." The young, pale woman resolved. Thus far, Mr. Holmes had proven to be precisely what she had thought him to be, if that course of reveal was to carry on, then she was ready for a bullet. 'Heart of the English nation', he had called Buckingham Palace, but he was the one with the true pulse of the nation, that was something she knew for certain. Anthea did not respond; that was when Clea learned to stick to what she was asked, as she would not readily receive an answer.

The two slid into the leather seats and the automobile took off without command.

"Where are we heading to, miss Anthea?"

"I'm to take you to your home. I trust you have your belongings packed?"Eyes still glued to the screen in front of her.

"Yes."

"Good." That was all the conversation held for the remaining time of their trip. The rest was silence as Clea Hardell contemplated her near future in Mr. Holmes' service. She had been through employment of the outer workings of the British government, so, at this point, she had deemed it time to be in close quarters with the master pulling the strings.

_One month later._

Clea lay, as she had, for the past month, in her bed and in the dark. It was always dark when Clea awoke. If she were to look outside of her window, she would be able to see the start of a blue hue colouring the skies; scattered bird calls sounded in the dark, the faint roar of an engine in the distance.

In the past, Clea had experienced far worse conditions to wake up to. For example; when there was a code R.E.D. breach in Buckingham Palace; those were rather brutal, even to the toughest of soldiers. 32 hour shifts, sometimes more depending on the severity of the breach- also whether it was a hacking, a fault in security or a physical attack.

The room with which Mr. Holmes supplied Clea with, was nothing terribly special, though was just as aristocratic as the rest of the household and a few sights better than what she was used to. However, the room did include a concealed door in one of the wooden panels along the walls which led to numerous rooms in the house. The passageways in said panel were led-lined and sound-proofed. When Clea had first arrived, upon assessing her new home, one thing that she had been pleasantly surprised with, was that Mycroft Holmes was undoubtedly prepared for just about anything.

Her fox-sharp eyes snapped open at 3:59, but then glazed over and relaxed once more. With hazy eyes, Clea stalked to her small, connected washroom. She flicked on the switch, white light stung her eyes as it did each morning. Once she recovered from momentary blindness, she looked in the mirror to size herself up. The first thing she noticed was the mop that seemed to have placed itself on her head, as her short, dark hair was matted and stuck up in places it oughtn't. Have I found a new passion for breakdancing in my time of slumber...or do I wish to resemble a turnip?she pondered. Her big, grey eyes were half closed and there was a distinct shape on her cheek, where she had rested her head, in a vibrant shade of pink.

She was a sight to behold in the wee hours of the morning, as it juxtaposed her usual self. In fact, on the seventeenth night she had spent in her new home, when sleep seemed to have evaded her, it resulted in her_ padding into the kitchen at 2:15 am. While Clea nearly prided herself on her awareness, it seemed that since working for Mycroft Holmes, she had let her guard down slightly. In her sleeplessness, the shadowed and ever-watching form of Mr. Holmes as he rested against the a counter, cup of tea in hand, had escaped her._

_"Does sleep escape you too?"He had inquired with a softness that was resoundingly unusual._

_Clea had spun on her heel, almost throwing the cup she had retrieved from the top cupboard at his head. Once she saw him, and registered who he was, her defensive stance lessened and she became well aware that she was in her robe - a short one at that-and in front of her boss, too._

_"Hello, Sir," An unfortunate blush had stained her not-so-awake cheeks, and she coughed awkwardly," Yes sir, I cannot find myself able to sleep..."Her voice trailed off, rendering them silent. In truth she had indeed fallen asleep, only to relive a particularly gruesome torture she had to watch...one which one would not readily forget. She fidgeted with her sleeves and then told Mr. Holmes that she had wished to find something to remedy her predicament, to which he had responded,"There is some peppermint tea in the cupboard. Help yourself."_

_She had made her tea and bid Mr. Holmes a quiet good night. He hadn't said anything in return, only continued to sip his tea. It wasn't until Clea was three steps out of the kitchen that he replied with a whisper, "Goodnight, Clea..."_

_Little did she know that after he said good night, a small grin stretched across his lips. He had seen the messy haired, burry eyed, delirious girl she became when she thought there was no one to see, and to say that it was endearingly amusing to him was an understatement. But that was a secret Mr. Holmes had chosen to keep to himself._

Clea splashed icy water onto her warm cheeks, the contrast awakening her senses, and looked in to mirror once more. The same classical face she saw everyday stared back at her. She disliked it. Many people would not take her seriously because she didn't have darker, tougher skin and harder muscles nor a terrifying stance. In their places, she had cream and peach skin, leaner, lither muscles and a confident and commanding stance.

_Time to wake up 007; the British Government won't survive on a cup of tea and the body in the freezer won't disappear on its own_.

Indeed, there was a corpse in the freezer, down in the cellar. An unfortunately persistent paparazzi had managed to find Mycroft Holmes' house, and, being the brother of the now famous Sherlock Holmes, he was a target for questioning. How the reporter had discovered Mycroft's name or address escaped both Clea and he, and so he needed to be dealt with. Now, Clea did not kill him, not at all; she had merely invited him in (for questioning, but of course, he was not aware that he would be interrogated) when he collapsed on the rug. Clea had called in a few favours and gotten his blood checked along with a tissue sample. But it seemed that he had died naturally. He had had a particularly agitating way of speaking- as though no matter how much he moved his mouth to form consonants and obtain proper diction, only slurred mumbles came out.

Padding out of the tiled room, Clea ambled to her dark wood dresser. She slipped from her loose, black night shirt, and plucked an equally black sports bra from her top cupboard and grey sweatpants from the lowest. She tugged both on and hoped to have the sturdy balance which was expected of her as a field agent, but sadly she tripped over her pant leg and fell face first onto her bed.

Once she recovered from her mishap, her muscles stretched and bones popped as she unfurled her stiff limbs in a stretch. She slipped into her runners, and quickly placed her earpiece in, and "earwig" they called it. Knowing the security team would be able to hear her if she so much as whispered, Clea spoke commandingly and loudly.

"Good morning, gentlemen."

To which she received a groggy "Hello to you too." from a voice she new belonged to Gregory Wills. He was her favourite;Agent Wills- to her, he was like the guardian angle she never had. Not last week, there was a shot fired through the kitchen window- it had missed Clea's Frontal Lobe by centimeters, because Wills had 'chosen' that time to make Clea's earpiece to shriek with static 'accidentally', causing her to duck in pain.

She liked him. Quite a lot. He was a bolder of a man who could have either been a boxer, a bouncer or Santa. And he was the only one path ever looked into- never did a background check.

Clea notified Wills that she would be going out as per usual. He secured any path to Mr. Holmes, down- as she would not leave the house without his safety in check.

Clea fled the manor with the silence of a breath and took to the large gardens, feet pounding on the trail. The chilled English air of the morning stung her strong lungs, and tried to freeze her muscles, but try as it might, the cold did nothing; not when Clea was in bliss. The garden was her most favoured place to be in all of Mr. Holmes' manor, more specifically her favoured place to rest her mind. Each morning, she would savour the sheer silence that engulfed the dawn, after all, she had never had the privilege of the quiet contentment she now felt. There were few things Clea held dear, one was time-the trickster that danced to a ticking beat. The next was a new day- the sign that she had cheated the customary early death of an agent once more. Like time, mornings were precious.

After twenty-five laps, Clea let her pursuing run slow to a light jog. She made her way to the more edible section of the garden, rather than strolling along the tiled path through the Rhododendrons and Azaleas. Once she reached said section, her eyes fell upon the familiar sight of a medium sized stainless steel bowl. It sat just beside a batch of Romaine lettuce, just as it did every morning.

Clea tipped her head to Mr. Holmes' window thoughtfully and she grasped her bowl. She thought on what to give him for his morning meal, and resolved that he would endure a fruit salad and fresh pressed juice of cucumber, ginger, grapefruit, apple, beets and kale. Sir was regularly hinting that he was on a diet, and if that was the case, then Clea would show him what health meant.

Clea filled her hands with raspberries and her eye twitched when her skin caught on a thorn. She added strawberries to her mix, along with generous handfuls of red currents. Then, she ventured to the Russet apple tree, not far away, and plucked two of its fruit.

With her bowl full and beads of sweat running down her skin, Clea strolled into the kitchen's glass double doors. She placed the fruit into the cool fridge with a covering of plastic-wrap over the bowl's , with the same amount of quiet amd grace she had exited with, Clea went to the stairs and up to her room.

* * *

><p>As she stood under its gentle spray, the soothing warmth of the shower tickled her skin as it's water ran to the tiles, washing away any residual grime that tarnished her. Sadly, that peace only lasted a few moments as even Clea's longest showers were finished before seven minutes. Flicking the nozzle to OFF, Clea slipped from the shower and was dried and dressed in record time.<p>

She stood adjusting her grey, full length, circle skirt in front of her mirror, her stockings wrapped her slender legs in a sheer-black embrace and she tucked her long sleeved blouse in for the twelfth time. Clea bent over to readjust her gun strapped to her right thigh as the holster's material was pinching was the ideal picture of what was expected of her- professional and one final look at herself, Clea went to unarm the paths to which led to her employer.

"Good morning, Clea."

Mr. Holmes' gentle and expectant voice cooed from behind her, as it did each day. She turned from her chopping board to greet him, the man Clea now guarded with every second of her life was leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen. Without fail, Mr. Holmes was dressed to flawless perfection. As per usual, he dawned an impeccable three-piece suit, however, that day's suit was one he had not worn before. The colour of choice was a navy blue pinstripe blazer, waist cost and trousers, along with a crisp white button down, and a scarlet tie with a gold pin.

Much like Clea was in the morning, Mr. Holmes was a sight to be held. Every inch of him practically screamed "I own you.", but that day-that Thursday- Mr. Holmes seemed off. His cooling demeanor remained in place, or course, but it was his stance that gave him away. His deportment told her that a crisis had arisen at his workplace- a look grew on his calm face that spoke volumes, saying that he wanted to explain to Clea what was going on, and if that were the case then the occurrence must be highly critical- then there was the particularly dapper suit he was clad in; he wanted to intimidate today, mark his territory and soundlessly tell all that he was dangerous. He was also meeting with the new Danish ambassador to the United Kingdom- a lovely man with a wife and five children.

"Good morning, Sir. Your breakfast is nearly done."She told him with her usual stoney face, but offered a small grin.

"Good." With that, his pride and regal demeanor swept from the room with him.

As she turned back to the food on the counter, sigh escaped Clea's pink lips. Though she was not technically supposed to be, she grew worried for her employer. He was such a powerful and power-driven man that sometimes Clea felt that his acceptance of potential danger was, in itself, a danger to him. Of course he would never admit those facts, but every so often, Clea saw it in him, and, like him, she would never let in that she was concerned.

"You realize that by depriving me of tea, I could have you killed?"

Oh yes, as much of a man he was, Mr. Holmes also had a rather childish side. That day was the day in which Clea cut out Sir's morning Earl Grey tea. Though she did it for his own good; the fluid did nothing to help his digestion of the light meal she served him that morning. The heaviness of the milk and the earl grey tea would confuse his system while he consumed the fruits. Which is why she had offered him a herbal tea in its stead, but that leads us back to the problem at hand.

Clea had said nothing.

"I could take your life apart, bit by pathetic bit, then leave you while you wail for help."

"Yes sir, but you won't. "

"And why wouldn't I?" He asked in his sweetly murderous tone.

"Because you need me, sir." She responded in her gentle, monotonous voice.

"I have your superior's superior on speed dial, I could call him right now." He purposefully punctuated the last two words with venom.

"But sir, you are my superior's superior. Unless you are going to call yourself, I'm afraid I don't see how that could work?"

"You realize that you could be replaced? That wouldn't bode terribly well for you, would it, my dear?"

"No, sir. It would not. Shall I go pack my belongings, sir?"She asked in jest, but did not let on through her face as it remained calm and questioning.

Her question caught Mr. Holmes off guard. He shut his mouth and looked at her. The majority of the individuals he dealt with would have been shaking where they stood, like the pathetic goldfish they were. But not her. She challenged him- something even his own brother dared not do without ammunition- and she was not afraid to do so. It was much like when he had confronted her about the fact that all of his suits no long fit him as they hung loose on his body; it was due to the complete change she had inflicted upon his eating habits. At the time, Mr. Holmes had expected an immediate apology and a suggestion that she go and purchase him new clothes, all said with a tremor in her voice. However, what he got what this:

_After he had asked-albeit rather eerily calm- for her to go and purchase him suitable clothes, she had looked him up and down in a analytical way and said plainly,"Is there anything else you require while I'm out sir?"_

_"No." He had sneered, agitated._

_Clea nodded and was just about to leave, when she turned and asked for her wages._

_"Why do you require your wages at this time? You are paid at the end of the month."_

_"I am to buy you new suits, sir. Each of your suits are at least £700, so I see fit to have my wages of this month to cover the extra cost."_

_"No, take this. I rarely use it so there should be at least £4000 on it." He handed her a credit card, which she took._

_"But sir, it is my doing that has led you to need new clothing, so therefore I ought to pay for it out of my own pocket, oughtn't I?"_

_He was about to argue back, when he saw the mirth floating in her grey eyes, something he had not seen in a long time. He had decided to play along._

_"How much do I owe you?" He asked._

_"£2530, sir."_

_"I shall add £2600 to your card."_

_"But sir, that is too much."_

_"Think of the extra as an advancement of your next paycheck."_

_"I cannot sir."_

_"Then I shall add £2500."He had huffed._

_"Thank you, sir."_

_She had left without another word. However, known to both of them, she had kept his card, and used it. And she had collected her wages at the end of the month. When she had returned that evening, she brought five complete, three piece suits with her, as well as any more casual wears he may have required. Each of which she had washed, pressed and hung in his closet by that night._

No, he would not replace her. No one else could be a constant know-it-all minx and still receive a "Good morning" from him. They both knew this, one of them simply hated to admit it.

"That will be all, thank you, Clea."

A hint of a smile tugged at Clea's lips, "Yessir."

Once Clea was back in the kitchen, she closed her eyes, mentally preparing herself for the day. Hands on waist, she cast her re-opened gaze around the kitchen space, until her eyes landed on her own meal; she had nearly forgotten it. The fruit stared up at her. A rich raspberry was millimeters away from Clea's mouth when she heard the faint click of the door closing quietly; it was never slammed. Another sound of her sigh echoed through the empty house as she begrudgingly finished her meal.

_Time to get rid of that body in the freezer..._

_note: If you are reading this, and if you have an amount of fingers exceeding one, please review...I love reviews and they are what keep me writing. I love for reading my story and hope you have a splendid day:)_


	3. Chapter 3

*****Chapter Three******

_~Six months later~_

They stopped believing in him- the goldfish of the world. They allowed for the changing of the news to twist their minds, just as easily as the reporters altered the headlines "HERO OF REICHENBACH" and "HAT-MAN AND ROBIN: the web detectives" to "SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS".The well coated, short friended, kin of Mycroft Holmes had been torn apart by the media, by his foe, and by his own mind. It seemed, that every success and experiment he bragged about to his partner in crime, John Watson, had all been a game of smoke and mirrors. Apparently, he had said "The game is on." too many times, and so began to believe it. No one believed in him. No one believed in Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

><p>From the apparent suicide of his brother, Mycroft Holmes rarely closed the door to his home at night; he never really returned home anymore. Few knew that he was aware of his brother's true whereabouts, but for those who did not, he remained a better actor than his kin. It seemed that, almost like a child growing too old for fairytales, he grew too cold for the warmth of his home, and what resided there.<p>

His work load had greatly risen, and both his patience and abilities were tried. Apparently even Gregory Lestrade had taken it upon himself to ask for help of the elder Holmes brother. Denied, he had been of course. But regardless of the reasonings behind any of these actions, there still remained a character pushed to the dusty side, so it seemed. Clea Hardell grew restless.

"Sir?"

Whether it was a call of confirmation, a cry for help, or a plea for mercy, the echo of a soft voice rang through the halls of the Holmes manor. One may compare Mycroft Holmes to Charlotte Brontë's Mr. Edward Rochester from her novel Jane Eyre; a brooding, almost untimely man with emotions like a coastal weather and a bipolar sense of right and wrong. So it seemed that her call was a combination of all three.

In the past, she had attempted to converse and discover more of what occupied Mycroft Holmes' mind, but she knew it was in vain. He had taken to leaving before even she awoke, only to return a week later. Silent. Though when he did return, he would often regard her for a moment, as though trying to figure her out, then disappear. And so the cycle continued. As of late, Clea had in fact, felt as though she was dusted under a carpet. She felt unneeded and she almost felt something she had not experienced in a long time. A twinge of fear. The prolonged absences, the rare returns; they began to wear down on Clea's composure.

At times, there was little she could do to hide her growing fatigue. Of course, what Mr. Holmes didn't know, was that her choice of position in his employment was not entirely her doing, and, up until now, we did not know this either. While Clea had indeed begun to tire of the tedious nature of her Palace unit, she had not left on her own volition.

Captain Marcus Greene had been in charge of her squadron. A military man too handsome to be in the government and too manipulative to be considered humane. Upon her consideration of leaving, he had more than subtly alluded to her to pursue a position in Mr. Holmes' security. As it happened, he meant it more literally than she had thought. The nature of why Greene had done this escaped her, seeing as, while she could survey and determine the weakness of any person in a room, she did not dare evaluate her Captain.

When first, she had received her notice of transfer, Clea's instructions were to defend and guard Mr. Holmes until her last heartbeat. Since day one, that had remained the mutual understanding between Mycroft Holmes and Clea Hardell. There was just one thing the Holmes brother was not aware of-and he hated not knowing- and that was the gun held to his guard dog's head. It was a firearm with loaded ammunition of something unknown; ready and waiting to inflict a fate worse than death.

A shudder ran up and down Clea's spine just thinking about it. If anything were too happen to Mycroft Holmes, a glob of gum on the bottom of Captain Greene's shoe would receive a better obituary than she.

Thus far, Mr Holmes had been diligent in letting her know of his whereabouts. However, as the months wore on, the amount of reassurance Clea received grew thin. An odd notification here or there would be what soothed the distress now, making her swallow thickly and slam her lips in a hard line.

For all intents and purposes, this behaviour displayed by Clea was not a laughin

* * *

><p>g matter. Some may find it difficult to believe that Mr. Holmes' guard dog could not keep eyes on him, but said people would be the goldfish swimming in the world. The ones who only see what they are shown and eat what they are fed. Not the inquisitors or detectives. Seeing as the issue at hand did not involve anyone but Mycroft Holmes, it was be very difficult for Clea to penetrate his thick walls and see how his wheels turned, and how he moved in the great game of the world. But he remained sincerely his own. He was his own key, which remained the only one to open his own lock, yet it could unlatch every other lock in the vault.<p>

Clea guarded him the best she could, but when one is guarding a man that could charm a sour nun, talk his way in and out of being crowned king at a moment's notice and commit homicide with his eyes, things get unhealthily desperate.

On more than one occasion, she had mused that Mr. Holmes took her for an annoying, worrying housekeeper. Seeing as when he did, in fact, return to his house, she would be nearly statuesque. He remained a good employer-respectable and in the present- but she had also thought she saw a flicker of pity in those cold eyes she had grown to know. Almost like he was peeking into her soul to see what lay there. Though regardless of their distance, when there came no tenor voice to call back in "good morning", a lead weight would fall in her stomach. A pandemonium of her fate would cloud her mind and she would once again swallow thickly and purse her lips.

On that Tuesday morning of October 2013, there rang no response to her inquiry, so she called again.

"Mr. Holmes?"

She waited until her own call came back to her ears, spelling out just how alone she was. Clea sighed as she tried to get her breathing under control, but it seemed to be that most difficult task she had been given as her throat was dryer than paper. That lump was back again. It taunted her throat. It made her angry.

Clea returned to the kitchen, stood there for a moment, them walked to the library. As she walked through the door, she felt air stream down and back up her throat. She felt a bit more at peace among the galaxies of books. Like she had done in the kitchen, Clea stood still, regaining her nearly lost composure.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In- BING

A not so quiet "bing" sounded from her right pocket. Clea took her forgotten phone out from her skirt pocket and stared at it's screen. Well more specifically the message illuminating it.

"_He is occupied_" it read.

A breath Clea didn't know she had been holding in eased out of her lungs. Another message popped up. It read,

_"Stop thinking. Get to work_."

Always the direct one. While Anthea was mildly intimidating, Clea had grown to respect her. She did not reply to either messages, instead, she chose to do just as they suggested. She got to work.

* * *

><p>She cleaned;she went and spoke with the security team, learning more about the house's protection system; she looked into newer security tech to update the current network she dealt with. Clea Hardell found herself some twelve hours later, head in hands and fingers massaging eyes; brain aching from the hurricane of information circling inside it.<p>

Her fingers slowed to a halt just as an obnoxious "BEEP" resounded from the downstairs; more specifically the kitchen. Inside of the oven which just beeped, lay a well roasted Sockeye Salmon, which she had fought with to debone roughy forty five minutes previous. As she descended the stairs, there was a prickling of the small hairs up the back of her neck. As though something was not quite right. Her head turned to the right, towards the main door. Clea paused. Ever so slowly, she stepped in the same direction in which her head was pointed, barely blinking.

Just as she took one more step, there was a knock on the door. A single knock. At 6:24 p.m.

She whipped her handgun out from her thigh holster, and sprung at the light switch on her left to plunge the entire front of the house in darkness. Poised and ready, she advanced.

The knock came again. Her skin prickled.

She took another cautious step, listening for any change in her environment. There came none. Another, and another, until she took as many steps as she could before she opened the door. Her small hand grasped the handle lightly, before she twisted it and yanked the door open, gun poised. Blood rushing, heart surprisingly steady, she faced what disturbed her that night:

Nothing.

There was no human, nor animal, no note nor scream of tires on pavement.

Knowing the security team had watched what happened, she knew that they would up their watch on the front door. Clea shut it, locked it and slid her weapon into place. The smell of fish reached her nose once more. She bolted to the kitchen, opened the oven and grabbed the pan out from inside; while she expected an overcooked, smoking salmon, it was actually quite perfect.

Clea slipped her watch out, circled her thumb around it's outside, then clicked it open to check the time. 6:34; exactly ten minutes had passed since the knock on the door. It had felt like longer. She sighed once again, slid the pan back into the oven and waited to see if she was preparing a dish for two or one. You see, usually by this time, there's would be some indication as to whether there would be a Mr. Holmes in the house or not. In response, Clea received only quiet.

Just as Clea was about to grab only one plate from the cupboard, there was a shift of cold air against warmth that prickled Clea's skin, forming goosebumps all up her arms and legs. Said shift was followed by the soft click of the front door. She grinned ever so slightly and grasped a second dish. With the plates on the counter, Clea turned to address her employer, but he was already in the doorway. She jumped inside, a bit, but only looked mildly surprised on the outside.

"Good evening, sir."She looked to his cold blue eyes. When he did not respond, she asked if he would be requiring an evening meal.

He remained standing still, never taking his eyes from her. His face, while blank, almost had a confused look to it, but he looked to have been completely content with remaining in that same position for as long as he could.

"Your hands..."

His voice startled her; she hadn't realized how quiet the house was until the silence was snapped. Clea looked to her hands while they remained holding the spoon for the meal's sauce. Seeing what greeted her made an anger begin to bubble inside of her. This was exactly the reason why she became an agent. To be stronger. But still, that little child hid inside her. Making her mind go places she did not want it to go and manipulating her body with strings. That young spirit inside made her hands betray her. They were shaking.

"Sir, I assure you I am fine-"

"I did not ask whether you are fine or not." He snapped. Clea remained stoic. When she did not defend herself, Mycroft clenched his fingers in his coat pocket. It seemed that he wanted to elicit some sort of response he did not know how to ask for. A sigh came from his nose when he saw the look on her face: it was that of a scolded soldier. Flat, but almost dejected underneath. Slowly, Mycroft came forward, reached for her hand, and brought it level with his chest.

"You say you're fine," he looked from her hand to her grey eyes, " but your hands tremor."

"Well, sir, today has been a bit trying. I suppose it's taking it's toll on me."She spoke simply, little emotion as always."My apologies, it won't happen again."

"Perhaps you ought to pace the hours of the day better, hm?"He murmured.

"Yes sir."

He took one final look at Clea's grey eyes, and seemed that he was finished. Defeated. Were these short exchanges silent battles in disguise between the two? Or were they all a game started by Mr. Holmes and always ending with Clea saying "Checkmate"?

"Good."

Clea retracted her hand just as quickly as Mr. Holmes released it. He swept from the kitchen, striding back into the hall where she could hear his footsteps ascending the stairs.

Clea looked at her hands where they shook. Silently cursing them.

Table laid out, dinner plated, Clea swept out of the door connecting kitchen to dining room. She set the plate down at the table head's place,

then stood to the side awaiting Mr. Holmes. She heard him before she saw him- the carful footsteps of his pricy shoes. When he entered, his suit coat was no where to be seen, and dress shirt's sleeves were rolled to his elbows.

A twinge of concern poked at Clea's insides. He took his seat, but before Mycroft began to consume the fuel that would last him another ten hours, he turned to Clea and asked her," Will you join me?"

Clea stared for a moment, unsure how to respond.

"Sir, I hardly think it-"

"Ms. Hardell, join me." There he was. That commanding OCPD man she had analyzed in her interview.

"Of course, sir." She replied after a pause.

A moment later, Clea returned with her own dinner. More times than she cared to admit, Clea stole glances at the mysterious Mr. Holmes while eating. She did so in hopes that he may shed some much needed light on his peculiar behavior. He knew his brother was alive, he had the British nation own his hands and the rest of the world waiting on his beck and call. But still, the peculiar quite stayed, and alas, she had no luck.

The longer she stayed silent, more questions burned the tip of Clea's tongue where she kept them for as long as she could. But as much as she disliked it, she _had_ to ask.

"Sir?"

He paused, almost like he had been anticipating her asking him about his current behaviour.

"Yes?"

"Please, pardon my asking, but what is wrong sir?"

He did his usual small smirk, then looked up at Clea with a straight face.

"Ms. Hardell, must there be something amiss for me to eat with you?"

"Of course not sir."

When Mr. Holmes' eyes returned to the dinner before him, she could tell that the conversation was over.

With the table clear of all dressings, Clea stood in the kitchen once more, at the sink to be exact; her hands deep in hot, soapy water and sleeves rolled up. There was a shift in the air, like someone breathing. Clea whipped her head around, only to see Mr. Holmes toying with a knife she would reach for to wash next. There was something in the slow way his fingers twirled the blade that set Clea on edge: it was hypnotic, disturbing and condescending.

"Sir, was there something you needed?"

He did not answer at first. The knife held his gaze for a moment longer, then he handed it to Clea.

"Have you heard the poem, "Ten little Soldiers" Ms. Hardell?" He asked as he retracted his hand. Clea's brow creased in the middle, seeing as the question caught her off guard.

"Well, yes sir, I have. It's better known under the title "Ten Little Indians, is it not?"

"Yes...yes it is." He mused in a low hum. "You ought to read it once more." Mycroft slowly walked towards her. He tsked, at first Clea was unsure why, but he rose his index finger to the darkening circles around her eyes; not quite touching them but just skimming them like a feather.

"Goodnight, Clea."

It seemed his bid of goodnight hung in the room, even after the tap of his shoes went up the stairs and into his office. Clea was left there to stand confused and concerned.

"Goodnight, Sir." She murmured, but there was no one to hear it. Just the night air.

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